The holidays are the hardest – when he's surrounded by reminders of how very alone he is. When he goes home after his shift at the station to an empty apartment and a half-eaten box of pizza in the fridge, sitting by himself on the couch and watching late-night television until his eyelids droop heavy and he falls asleep sitting up, dragging himself to his cold bed only when the crick in his neck protest too much. It's the same routine he's maintained for years and he's content with it – in his own way, of course – but the holidays, well. The holidays are tough.

Thanksgiving finds him at the station, legs crossed at the ankle and propped on the edge of his desk, headphones slung around his neck as Little Drummer Boy echoes through the speakers. Regina had been rather insistent about Christmas music starting before the holiday, despite his and Ruby's objections. Apparently they needed to be Storybrooke's first station to make the transition. Never mind that they were Storybrooke's only station.

A well of protest rises deep in his soul when he cues up the next song – Dominick the Donkey. It might be too early for Christmas music, but it is definitely too early to subject listeners to Dominick and his hee-haw, hee-haws.

He flicks on the mic just as Little Drummer Boy plays his final rin-tin-tin-tin's and slides the headphones back over his ears.

"You're listening to 81.5, Storybrooke's only Christmas station," he gives his best over-exaggerated grin to Regina sitting in her office on the other side of the glass, and she primly flicks him off. She has dinner with Robin and his boy later in the evening. Perhaps she should set herself to that. "What are you thankful for this holiday?"

He presses the merrily blinking red light that signals a caller on the line…

…and quickly finds that he's thankful for the flask of rum he keeps in the bottom right drawer of his desk.

Apparently the women of Storybrooke are thankful for his long-tenured tradition of giving up his holiday to spend it on the airwaves. They're thankful for his voice, too. The way he sayslove and darling and how he makes everyone feel special, just for calling in. Regina would call all of this nonsense a notch in the customer engagement checkbox. Ruby would call it a direct result of his "bedroom voice" – the one that they make him use during late-night shifts in February around the Valentine's rush.

He, however, calls it a headache.

Enough so that he switches back to the mind-numbing Christmas music.

Regina ducks in-to the booth after he hangs up on a peal of high-pitched giggling, wincing his way through it. "I'm heading out. Try not to drink yourself into a stupor and burn the place down."

She stares pointedly at the flask he's tapping against his prosthetic in time with the music. He has no idea what he would burn down or how, but he chooses to ignore it. The spirit of the holidays and all that. "I'll be fine. Just a little something to wet my whistle, is all."

"Dear god, that reminds me of that horrendous Crabs for Christmas song."

He chuckles, knowing just the one she's talking about. Definitely not Maryland's best contribution to the holiday. "Need I remind you, Your Majesty," her lips quirk up at the nickname. "This was all your idea."

"And a damn good one it was, too." She lingers in the doorway a moment longer. "Have a good holiday, Killian."

He ducks his head down, fiddling with the flask in his hands. "Careful, love. You might seem like you actually care."

She scoffs before turning on her heel. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He mutters just as the door closes, leaving him in silence. He sighs as he faces the prospect of O Christmas Tree for the third time this shift, or the blinking red light on the phone set.

He slips the headphones over his ears, takes a pull from the flask, and hits the answer call button on his monitor.

"You're listening to 81.5, Stroybrooke's only Christmas station."

-/-

It's easier celebrating the holidays like this – with his flask of rum and the company of the electronics around him humming, a slice of pumpkin pie cheesecake in the fridge left over from the staff Thanksgiving lunch with his name on it. His mind doesn't focus on all the things he doesn't have.

Instead he has Bruce Springsteen and the live rendition of Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town.

All in all, not a bad Thanksgiving.

-/-

"My name is – " The small voice shakes around each word, clearly nervous with his first radio appearance. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and continues on with confidence. "My name is Henry and I was just wondering if I could maybe put my Christmas wish in early?" He pauses and Killian's grin threatens to split his face. "Since you're playing Christmas music and all."

"Wise deduction, my boy," He'll gladly take a break from increasingly tipsy female callers and the holiday hits of the 80's, especially if it means hearing a young lad's Christmas wish. "What is it that you're wishing for so eagerly that your mind is on it in November?"

"Well, I just – " He stops abruptly, a fumble on the other end of the line.

"Alright there Henry?"

"Yeah, I just had to do, uh, something."

"That sounds foreboding."

"It's not. So, my wish."

Killian chuckles, flicking the lid to his flask shut and tucking it back into the bottom of his desk. "Aye, lad. Give us your wish and we'll see if we can't put in a good word with the big man."

"My Christmas wish is for my mom to have a boyfriend."

"That's – " Killian coughs, shaking his head a bit. He had anticipated a toy truck or perhaps one of those horribly violent video games. Not a romantic entanglement for the boy's mother. "That's not what I expected. How old are you, Henry?"

"Almost eight. Old enough to tell when my mom's sad."

His stomach drops, and his hand absentmindedly rubs at his forearm – the place where the plastic of his prosthetic bites into his skin, leaving twin grooves behind.

"What is it that happened to your father, Henry? If you don't mind me asking?"

"No, I figured as much." The young boy replies succinctly, and Killian can't help but chuckle. "He left us, before I was born. Mom says he's a loser with a fu – "

"Careful, Henry. You're on the air."

"Sorry. I'll put a dollar in the curse jar." He's quiet for a moment. "Do you think this will hurt my chances with Santa? To get my wish?"

"No, lad. I think you'll be just fine."

-/-

Her name is Emma, she likes her hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon, she has a tattoo on her wrist of a buttercup flower, and she has a fury like a summer storm upon the sea when she discovers her son hiding in the hall closet on the phone with a radio show.

It's slightly muffled, but he hears her all the same. As does the rest of Storybrooke.

"What are you doing?" A beat of silence as Henry mumbles something under his breath. "Who are you on the phone with?" Her voice suddenly becomes clearer as she wrestles the device from his grip. "Who the hell is this?"

"Uh, Killian Jones? From 81.5?"

She's quiet on the other end, and for a moment he fears the connection has been lost. "I'm assuming my son called you?"

"I would lie and tell you you've just won an all-expense paid trip to the Bahamas, but I'm afraid that would be lying, love." He checks his monitor. He hasn't played a Christmas song in over 28 minutes, and he wonders how many angry text messages he has from Regina. He swipes his phone into the same desk drawer as his flask without looking. "You have a lovely boy, and he just called in to ask for his Christmas wish."

The noise she makes is something of a painfully wounded animal, and he bites the inside of his cheek against his smile.

"Don't tell me. He asked for his mom to have a boyfriend."

He can hear Henry speaking up in the background – a muffled come on, Mom!

"Is this a habit of his?"

"Let's just say he has a tendency or two to try and find people's happy endings." Her voice loses its edge and he can't help but try and picture her – this mysterious woman with golden hair and a flower on her wrist. "And dogs. And frogs. And a bird or two, now that I think of it."

"Ah, well. There are worse things for a young boy to be involved in."

"Don't tell me that," she chides, but there is no heat in her words. "I have enough to worry about as it is."

Her voice goes slightly muffled as she directs her attention to Henry, only a few words filtering through the line – something about phone for emergencies and love life is not an emergency. Henry though, his voice comes in loud and clear, a petulant grumble that her love life most definitely is an emergency.

He can't help it. He laughs into the receiver.

"So what is it, Emma?"

She sighs, resigned to her fate. "What is what?"

"What is your happy ending?"

"Right now? A bottle of wine and my kid locked in his room."

-/-

Her name is Emma, she likes her hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon, she has a tattoo on her wrist of a buttercup flower, and she is sharp as a whip with a cutting tongue and a clever mind.

But it's the other part that intrigues him most. When she tells him of her past relationships – of why Henry has taken it upon himself to call into a radio station and inquire after a suitor for his mother – the way her voice gets soft and sad.

"It's just never seemed to work out, I guess." The loneliness in her voice reaches out to his like a physical thing, curling between them. "I suppose some people aren't meant for happy endings – like that, anyway. I have Henry, and that's all the happy ending I need."

"He's a fine boy, and he loves you very much."

He can hear the smile in her voice. "He's something, alright."

-/-

"I imagine you aren't much on grand gestures, love."

She laughs through the phone – deep and husky. "No, I'm not really your roses and jewelry type of girl. What gave it away?"

He ignores the furiously blinking litany of red lights on the phone. "You're somewhat of an open book."

-/-

It isn't lost on him that she could have hung up any number of minutes ago. But she stays on with him – talking about Henry, about her likes and dislikes, about her inability to even make a grilled cheese without burning the edges.

She snorts through an absolutely ridiculous joke he makes regarding Netflix and he thinks he falls in love with her, just a little bit.

-/-

"Rum. I definitely prefer rum as my drink of choice."

Okay, so he falls in love with her a lot.

-/-

"Oh my god, it's late," she sounds genuinely surprised and when he glances at the clock above the doorway, he is as well. They've been on the line for close to 48 minutes, and he's definitely due for some messages from sponsors. But he's loathe to let Emma go, now that he's started to get to know her. "I've got to get this kid up to his room."

"Aye," he flounders for something to say – something appropriate for on-air. "It was lovely speaking with you, Emma."

"Yeah. you too," but she sounds distracted, her voice far away and an obviously freshly woken Henry grumbling in the background. There is a muffled exchange between mother and son and she chuckles, the sound of it skittering through the headphones and along his skin, making his stomach drop down low. "Happy Thanksgiving, Killian."

"You as well, Emma."

He presses his fingertips tight to the desktop, feeling like a bloody fool for staring as hard as he is at the little red light on the phone line, willing it not to go out. She sighs once more before the line goes dead and he mutters something about holiday music brought to you by Granny's before tearing off his headphones and dropping his face in his hand. He presses at his eyes until he sees spots.

Something tells him he's going to have a very hard time forgetting the Emma woman.

-/-

He walks into the office the following morning, nursing the biggest cup of coffee Granny's would provide him with, a headache pounding behind his eyes. He got little to no sleep, hearing her voice in his head every time he turned over in bed. The rum he imbibed hadn't helped then, and it definitely wasn't helping now.

"Jones!" Regina bellows down the hallway from her office and he changes the direction of his morose shuffling to the opposite end of the hall. He had left his phone in his desk when he concluded his shift last night, not eager to read the litany of messages from Regina chewing him out for staying with a caller on the line for so long. She arches an eyebrow when he drags his useless body in through the door, but shockingly keeps her comments to herself.

"You look like shit."

Ruby does not.

"Always a delight, Ruby." He looks down at his prosthetic and notices he put it on backwards this morning, the thumb sticking out at an odd angle. Tip of the iceberg, really, with how he's feeling today.

He decides to leave it. Let it stand as a testament to his mental instability.

"Your call last night, with that Emma woman and her son – "

He waves his hand in the air. "No need. I apologize pre-emptively."

Ruby snickers in her chair to his right and Regina gets that look on her face – the one where she looks she might slay a whole village of innocent bystanders just for looking at her wrong.

It's a scary look.

"Oh, no need for an apology. In fact, I should offer you a raise." His eyebrows jump at that, and Regina's grin morphs into something that can only be described as manic. "You just came up with our Christmas storyline."

-/-

It seems he's going to have a very, very, very difficult time forgetting the Emma woman.

-/-

"You want me to what?"

Regina steeples her fingers beneath her chin as all three of them stare at the phone in the middle of her desk. Apparently, his deviation into nearly an hour-long conversation last night drew quite a bit of attention. Good attention.

Well, if you consider the horde of men practically beating down the door of the station to get Emma's phone number good.

Killian isn't so sure.

"We want you to have a holiday series with us – Emma Finds Her Happy Ending."

Killian snorts into his coffee, and it's echoed on the other end of the line.

"Pretty sure that sounds like a porno. Listen, I don't think – hey!" A cacophony of noise tumbles over the speaker and they all flinch back, Ruby reaching forward and pressing the volume button down until it recedes and the noise clears.

"She'll do it!" A tiny voice over the line exclaims, and there's another clatter of noise – the unmistakable sound of feet pounding up a flight of stairs before a door slams shut. "My mom," Henry wheezes, clearly out of breath. "She'll do it."

A door opens and shuts again and the phone must take a tumble to the ground, because the sound is subdued as Henry squeals and then giggles. It seems as if retaliation has come in the form of a tickle attack.

He feels nothing, he swears.

"I'm not doing this, kid. It's crazy."

"It's not! It's Santa! He heard my wish!"

Regina grins. Certainly, there's no resisting that.

A muffled curse under her breath and the phone is picked up again.

"One condition," Her sigh is bone weary at best. "We change the name."

-/-

They decide they should do another series of on-air interviews, introduce the contest, and see what sort of response they get. They've been teasing it all week and so far the response has far exceeded any of their expectations.

Killian can't say he blames them.

"Wait, so what's the end game here?" She sounds vaguely panicked when they explain the details they have so far – about all the men calling in to inquire about the mysterious Emma. A contest where she is the prize is a little old-fashioned, he agrees, even for his tastes. "The guy wins me?"

"No, no, nothing like that. We're merely serving as your dating conduit. You'll speak to the men you're interested in speaking to, and we'll see if we can't find you a boyfriend for Christmas." Regina nods in affirmation and his stomach does an uncomfortable roll. "The station will send you to dinner with the man of your choosing. That's the prize. Should you decide no man meets your satisfaction, no dinner necessary."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Can she take me to dinner?" Henry pipes up. Regina smiles, soft and genuine, and he doesn't think he's ever seen that look on her face before.

"Absolutely."

-/-

The morning she is set to arrive at the station, he's a mess – dithering about in the hallway like a fool – pouring himself four cups of coffee and chugging them in anxiety. He's wired, sleep-deprived from another night spent tossing and turning, and more than a little off his game.

It's how he manages to run right into her when she steps through the door.

He sets his hand on her shoulder to steady her, making quick note of the slick floor beneath her boots. He doesn't know how he knows this is her, except that he does, a thrill rolling over his shoulders as he takes in the windburn on her cheeks – the dent in her chin. A little blur goes darting past their legs and she makes a half-aborted motion to grab him.

Henry, he presumes.

"It's good of you to come, lass," he releases her shoulder and scratches at his ear instead, keeping his false arm down by his side. Her eyes flicker over it briefly but she pays it no extra consideration, fixing her gaze on his.

"Oh, you must be Killian," She takes a half step back, eyes critical as they sweep over his face. He can't shake the feeling that he's being weighed and measured, not altogether unpleasant when she's standing there with snow in her hair – a tangled mess of curls pressed up against the side of her neck. "I just realized after all that talking, I had no clue what you looked like."

"Imagine me, did you?" He takes her blush as confirmation, a wide grin tugging at his lips. He can't help it. He can't ever seem to help it where Emma is concerned. "Well, what's the verdict? Better or worse?"

She seems to grab hold of her bearings once more, pulling her cap from her head and smoothing down her wayward locks. "Oh, worse. You're heinous."

He laughs. "Am I now?"

"Yeah, for sure. I totally see why you do radio now. Can't be going on TV with that face."

He hums in accordance, rocking back on his heels. "Of course."

She shoves her beanie into her coat pocket, arms crossed over her chest as she mirrors his stance, leaning against the wall. "What about me?" She questions. "Am I what you pictured?"

"You?"

"Yeah," her smile shifts into something soft, trembling around the edges, and he's reminded of it just never seemed to work out, I guess. "Me."

"You are – " He swallows, his gaze lingering on the bright green of her eyes, the swell of her cheekbones, the smattering of freckles across her nose. "You are – "

"We go live in 15!" Ruby comes tearing out of her office, post-it notes stuck to her like she's just made her way through some office supply apocalypse, and he would be surprised if this were not a regular occurrence. She smiles brightly at Emma, not realizing that she's just managed to crush his hopes of a moment between the two of them beneath her pretty red fingernails.

Ruby slips her hand in Emma's elbow and tugs her towards the booth where Henry is already waiting – legs kicking back and forth while Regina shows him how the headphones work for phone calls.

Stunning. He was going to say stunning.

-/-

An hour and two prospective boyfriends into his segment, Ruby gestures at him through the window. It's a labor to take his eyes away from Emma and the too-big headphones over her ears, hair adorably tucked beneath them, but he manages. He makes sure Henry is set with his box of apple juice and Emma is comfortable being left alone in the booth before standing, double checking that there are a couple songs lined up before fading into commercial.

Heavens knows she shouldn't have to answer another one of those calls on her own.

The first two had been lacking, to say the least.

(Her face is pinched when they disconnect from the call, Henry adorably mimicking his mother's agitated expression. It's easy to see how they're related when they both look at him like this.

"I thought you said you vetted these guys. Rated their compatibility or something."

"Perhaps the next will be better."

"Yeah," She shrugs, lips tilting down. "Maybe.")

"I think it's going well, but I hope the next one at least remembers her name. What do you – "

"Sit down, I didn't call you in here to talk about that."

He arches an eyebrow, unease settling in his stomach at the look Ruby is giving him. It's a combination of amusement and genuine exasperation, not at all unlike the way she typically looks at her pastry in the mornings just before she devours it.

"Sit."

He sits.

"You like her, and don't bother denying it because you practically growled at those guys on the phone."

"I didn't growl."

"Yeah," she drums her nails on the tabletop to the beat of 12 Days of Christmas. "You did."

He contemplates that for a moment, remembering the fury that licked up his spine when the second guy called her Ella – the way her face had fallen and Henry had reached out for her hand, squeezing it carefully with his much smaller one. He remembers the way she caught his eye as she stuttered out a response about liking cinnamon on her hot chocolate, whipped cream too, and the blush on her cheeks – the hesitant smile as he nodded and encouraged for her to continue only to have the man on the line cut her off about some fancy espresso drink from one of those chain stores just outside of town.

"Yeah," he sighs, hand pushing through his hair, prosthetic tapping against his leg. "Yeah, I like her."

"Maybe you should call into the station then," she loses the teasing look, face softening. "Seriously, Killian. When's the last time you liked someone? Ask her out."

"I don't – " She's laughing on the other side of the glass, head thrown back and both arms wrapped around Henry. Determination steels in his chest. He hasn't wished for anything for Christmas in quite some time, but perhaps – perhaps she could be his Christmas wish, too. "You're right. I'll ask her to dinner if no one catches her fancy."

"There you go."

-/-

As soon as Walsh calls in, he wants to hang up the bloody phone.

Unfortunately, Emma doesn't seem to agree.

He's charming and kind and he remembers from her conversation with Killian that she likes to eat Cheerios as a snack when she gets home from work.

He wants to take the phone and fling it from the window.

Henry perks up at Emma's left as the conversation continues, wide brown eyes calculating.

"Do you like fairy tale stories?"

Walsh chuckles, and Killian curls his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm instead of "accidentally" hitting end call on the monitor.

"Of course I do. Who doesn't?"

Henry grins. "Great! My mom will go on a date with you then."

-/-

Walsh stays on the line after his conversation with Emma is over, giving details to Ruby on how he can be reached. Henry is too busy bouncing up and down in his chair in excitement to pay his mother any mind, but he is. He can't take his eyes off her.

"What do you think?" She asks him quietly, eyelashes brushing against her cheeks.

"I think it's, uh – " He scratches at the spot behind his ear, a long-held nervous tic he's unable to cure himself of. "I think he seems like a good guy." Her shoulders fall, and he's not sure what to think of that. "Perhaps you should give it a go, love."

"Yeah," she nods, ruffling Henry's hair. "I should."

-/-

She gives Regina the go-ahead, and he announces later that evening that Walsh will be escorting Emma to dinner, courtesy of the station.

He pulls his flask out of his drawer.

-/-

Showing up at the restaurant Emma is set to meet Walsh is not his best idea.

In fact, it's a fairly stupid idea and he regrets it almost the second he walks in through an arch of holly leaves, sprigs of mistletoe sprinkled throughout.

It's just – he wants to make sure she's okay. That this Walsh guy isn't taking advantage of her or making her uncomfortable or –

Stupid idea.

"Killian?"

Really bloody stupid idea.

It's too late to run, though he idly considers it. Perhaps if he just sprints through the door, he can pass this off as a hallucination or –

"Did the station send you?" She gives him a timid grin. "Is this a part of the promotion, too?"

She looks stunning in a pale pink dress that swings around her knees, her hands clutching at her elbows as she tries to keep herself warm in the large foyer of the fancy restaurant. He wants to offer her his coat.

He wants to take her to dinner.

He wants her to not be waiting for another man.

"Ah, well," he scratches behind his ear and her smile curls into something a little more sure, eyes glowing in the candlelight. He calms slightly, thumb finding his belt buckle as he sways into her space, and she tilts her head up to accommodate him. "No, this isn't part of the promotion. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

It seems honestly was the best policy with Emma, as a pretty blush spreads from her cheeks down to her neck. He keeps his eyes on hers though, not willing to see just how far down that pink goes. It's a form of torture he doesn't think he'll be able to withstand.

"I can handle myself."

He grins, nodding. "I have no doubt of it, love. I just – "

"Swan, party of two." Emma turns when her name is called, ponytail brushing against her neck. She smells like honey and cinnamon, and he wonders if she had a hot chocolate before she arrived. The waitress nods and smiles at Emma's acknowledgment, and begins to lead them to Emma's table.

The one she's supposed to share with Walsh.

Bloody hell.

"I should – "

"No," Emma grips his elbow just above his prosthetic, hauling him along behind her like a woman determined. It makes desire tighten low in his gut and he muffles a groan when her nails bite into his skin through his jacket. "No, Walsh is late. Keep me company?"

She gives him that timid smile again as she takes her seat, the candlelight making her skin glow. He has to hand it to Ruby. She picked a romantic spot.

Bloody hell.

-/-

"The station is picking up the bill, right?

"Yes, but I should probably go since – "

"I'll have a plate of onion rings," she closes the menu and rests her elbows on it. "And we'll both take a rum."

-/-

She is beautiful and smart and the ends of her hair brush along her shoulders every time she laughs and he wants this – for real. No contest, no radio show, no Emma Finds Her Happy Ending.

"You must be Emma."

No Walsh.

He excuses himself with as much dignity as he can muster, muttering an excuse about checking in for the station. Emma's eyes drop from his gaze and he can see her shoulder's tense but he's already ruined enough tonight. He should let her salvage the rest of her evening with the man she intended.

"Bye, Killian." She whispers as he pulls his jacket back over his arms. Why he took it off, he doesn't know. He was never meant to stay.

"Enjoy your evening, Swan."

-/-

He eats room temperature pizza on his couch and falls asleep sitting up until the crick in his neck forces him to go to bed.

He dreams of her laughter and that pretty pink dress, the same shade as her blush.

-/-

He plays I'll Be Home For Christmas at the end of his shift every night because it's her favorite and he wonders if that makes him pathetic. That he's half in love with a woman he's only spoken to a handful of times. Ruby gives him sad, lingering looks over her desk and even Regina has taken to tip-toeing around him and he hates it.

He hates that she hasn't called even more.

Hates that Henry hasn't bothered to call either.

The holidays, they're tough.

-/-

He would take to not answering calls at all if he could. Because every shift there is inevitably someone inquiring after Emma and every shift, he has to force himself to sound happy and say things like –

"I'm sure she's found her happy ending." Even though he half-hopes she hasn't.

"Emma is a lovely lass, who deserves the world." Because she does.

"I bet her and her boy are enjoying the holiday." While he wishes he were enjoying it with them, his dreams every night of frosting on her nose and cranberry sauce swiped across her cheek.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, queueing up Dominick The Donkey because if he's miserable, everyone else deserves to be as well.

"You're listening to 81.5 – "

"Killian, it's me! It's Henry!"

His heart just about stops in his chest as he sits up abruptly in his chair, accidentally kicking over the stack of files Ruby keeps meticulously organized right next to one of the speakers. She'll rip him a new one, but he can't be concerned with that. Not right now.

"Is everything alright, lad? Your mum – "

"She's fine! Well, kind of. I need to put my wish out to Santa again." Henry exhales, sounding for all the world he just ran several laps chased by a horde of beasts. He drops his voice to a whisper. "Do you think it can still happen before Christmas?"

It's one of those moments – where his blood rushes in his ears and everything slows to a crawl. It's his moment, his chance. He knows exactly what he needs to do.

He hits the queue for Dominick The Donkey.

"Henry, my boy. What's your address?"

-/-

Running the seven blocks to their house from the station seemed romantic in nature, but in reality all it does is leave him with a painful cramp about three blocks off. He stops and bends at the knees before continuing forward at a much slower pace, wheezing all the way.

It gives him time to think. And doubt. And wonder if he'll still have his job after leaving in the middle of a shift.

It all stops, however, when he's in front of her door and he raises his fist to knock, not giving himself another moment to think.

It's his Christmas wish, after all.

She answers the door in a bright red sweater, hair in loose curls around her face, and her eyebrows knit together when she sees him.

"Killian? Are you alright?" He waves off her concern even as he continues to wheeze. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the door jamb. "Are you aware thatDominick The Donkey has been playing on loop for the past twelve minutes?"

He can hear it in the background and he wonders how long she's been listening. Did she hear Henry call in? Does she know why he's here?

"It took me twelve minutes to get here?" That's shameful. The state of his health is shameful. A New Year's resolution, perhaps.

But he's here for his Christmas wish.

He straightens. "Emma, I – " He swallows around the swell of feeling in his chest, the rush of warmth as he searches her gaze and tries to find the words for what he feels. It's crazy, he knows it's crazy, but what he feels for her –

The way she looks when there's a smile slowly pulling at her lips. The way her hand feels when it curls around the front of his button down. The way he can smell the chocolate on her breath as she tips her head back and presses up on her toes.

The first press of her lips to his is tentative, searching. But when she tugs his fake arm around her waist and presses it to the small of her back, tilting her head and nipping at his bottom lip with a hiccupping sigh – he can't hold himself back.

His hand sifts in the hair just behind her ear as he backs her up against the door, her head knocking gently against the wreath, a pine needle or too brushing his cheek as he kisses her harder. Her tongue slides against his and she tastes like cinnamon – like sugar cookies and a hint of rum – all hot, wet heat that has him groaning when her mouth slips from his to press against his throat.

"Yes!"

They break apart like guilty teenagers, Henry smiling at them gleefully from the top of the stairs, dancing merrily in his red reindeer pajamas.

"I should, uh – " Dominick The Donkey is still playing in the background. "I should take care of that."

Emma nods, her smile hidden beneath the fingertips pressed to her lips.

He ducks down and presses one more kiss to her lips – another, and then another, and then one more when she sighs into him.

"Come back after?" She questions when he pulls back and he nods, legs feeling like jell-o beneath him.

She smiles. "Good."

-/-

He's wheezing again when he gets back to the station, but he's smiling too. He hits end to the music and pants some jibberish into the microphone, switching over to I'll Be Home For Christmas before he can make a fool of himself.

He plays every rendition of the song he can think of to finish out his shift.

-/-

She's waiting for him with a cup of hot cocoa – whipped cream and cinnamon on top.

It's cold before he takes his first sip.

He'd much rather taste it on her lips.

(Which he does, repeatedly, pressing her deep into her couch cushions as she wraps her legs around his hips, making little breathy sounds into his neck when he grinds against her just right - the glow from the Christmas tree reflected in her hair and in her eyes as she stares up at him.

"Do you want to - "

"Is that okay with - "

She rolls her eyes, pushing him back gently and lacing her fingers with his. "Henry called his Uncle David to come pick him up as soon as you left. He's never once used that damn phone of his for an emergency.")

-/-

Henry had been far too smug earlier in the morning, when Killian had come stumbling down the stairs – hair wild and yawn wracking his shoulders. Far more smug than any seven year old had a right to be, anyway.

Now, he can feel Henry's stare over his bowl of cereal, trying not to fidget in the booth at Granny's. It's been a long time since he's been intimidated by anyone, let alone a boy.

(But this boy is special. This boy means the world to Emma and if Henry doesn't approve – if Henry wanted someone else, then - )

"My mom's had a crush on you forever," A stray cheerio misses Henry's mouth and plops down in a soggy mess between them. Killian reaches forward without thinking and swipes at it with his napkin. Emma is at the counter, placing an order for omelets and chatting with Granny herself, and it seems Henry is taking advantage of the alone time. "She listens to your show all the time. She says your voice is soothing."

"I – What?"

"Before the contest, I mean. She's listened to you since I was really little. She tells Auntie Mary Margaret that your voice is like really smooth, or something. They always laugh about it and her face gets all red. It's weird."

He considers that for a moment – starts to smile when all the pieces come together.

"Why, Henry. It seems I underestimated you."

Henry grins around a mouthful of cereal. "Operation Candy Cane."

-/-

She kisses the ketchup off the corner of his lips as Henry goes darting off behind the counter, intent of trying his hand at making a hot chocolate as Granny had promised. Killian sinks his hand into her hair and sighs into it, tilting her head so he can chase her lips with his and taste the coffee on her tongue.

She pulls back after a moment but doesn't go far, resting her forehead against his, tracing his smile with her thumb.

Operation Candy Cane.

Definitely a success.